


Then, Now, Forevermore

by AuriKitty, BelowTheWind, Chrometome_hatter, daft_panda, RostosGirl, Slayer_of_Hearts, smolbeancarter



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Governmental overthrow hoes, Hanging Out, M/M, Multi, So much fucking MoxZ, chaos incarnate, chaotic cottagecore lesbians, chaotic lesbian shenanigans, doing nothing at all, down the street, heart been broke so many times i don't know what to believe, honestly just a place to hold my snippets and drabbles and ideas i write for my DND party, just some parties chillin, probably some z being a little shit, same old thing, there's def gonna be some sex dude, theres probs going to be fluff too, they did last week, yeehaw rock bitch, yeet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27932359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriKitty/pseuds/AuriKitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelowTheWind/pseuds/BelowTheWind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrometome_hatter/pseuds/Chrometome_hatter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/daft_panda/pseuds/daft_panda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RostosGirl/pseuds/RostosGirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slayer_of_Hearts/pseuds/Slayer_of_Hearts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolbeancarter/pseuds/smolbeancarter
Summary: keeping everything in google docs was getting cluttered so uhhh YEET
Relationships: Archadia/Sariel, Lyren/Riordan, Mox/Z, Syr/Cherry, Vera/Varen
Comments: 13
Kudos: 3
Collections: Sin Bin DnD





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nessaria shooting the shit with Lyren. Some kinky memories. Ness is tired of the constant yearning.

“You keep looking at him with that stare of yours and I won’t need coal to keep my forge lit.” Nessaria says, and wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. The gleaming sword in her hands had been nothing but a misshapen lump of steel when Lyren first sat down to shoot the shit, so it’s telling of just how long he’s been gazing at his dear Commander. 

“Sorry,” he says, and turns to give her a sheepish smile. 

“Don’t be. Beefy daddy over there keeps looking at you, too.” She shrugs, and drowns him out with the clangs of a hammer against another blade. 

Lyren takes the tip and tilts his head to face his lover. Far be it from Riordan to look away, and Lyren would almost be embarrassed by the spark that he can feel between them, even from this distance. Almost, but not quite. 

He does find it a bit...difficult, however. How do you go from your mouth between one’s thighs to acting normal the next day? He’d done it with others, yes, but those had been *flings*. Never once had he incorporated romantic feelings in to the mix. 

He’s almost tempted to believe it was just a dream - but the way Riordan looks at him, the way his legs still feel like jelly, tells him it’s anything but. 

_ “Yes,” he gasps, and his fingers claw at the broad, scarred back of his Commander, hips lifting, canting, back arched of its own accord even as Riordan secures an arm around it, anchoring hips to hips.  _

_ The thrusts are short, but deep, and gods, he’d never known a pleasure quite like this. White dances at the corner of his eyes, blending with his surroundings, melding, shifting, jumping in time with each deep claw at his ass. Muscled thighs jiggle with every thrust, and he wonders for a moment if it would be weird to wrap them around Riordan’s waist - but then he’s pulling back, and all Lyren can do is curl his legs around his hips and beg for him to “Fill me up, please. Your cock, your cum, I-”  _

_ And he’s never quite  _ **_begged_ ** _ before, not like this. The action is foreign but instinct guides his hands as he digs his fingers in to the toned flesh of the Commander’s backside. “Don’t pull out, not yet. I want to feel you.”  _

_ He’s unsure if it’s what Riordan wanted to hear, or if the words are just a trigger - because the next thing he knows, broad hands curl around toned calves, forcing his legs down and apart as the thick, muscular frame of his lover settles between them.  _

_ The bed creaks with the new pace.  _

_ It’s all Lyren can do to hang on, to call for his beloved Commander, to sink blunt nails in to his back and beg for him to cum, to mark him as his own, to  _ **_claim_ ** _ him - and gods, Riordan does just that.  _

_ “You’re doing so well,” he says, and the rough grit of his voice has Lyren sobbing in response, body nearly jackhammered in to the fucking mattress, “you take my cock perfectly.” If he had more coherent thought, Lyren would be jealous of how well the man holds up under the exertion - though the hazy, fuck addled part of his brain picks up on the breathy undertones, the way Riordan sucks in lungfuls of air when he’s not stealing the very breath from Lyren’s lips, kissing him like he’s never going to get the chance again.  _

_ Lyren can’t tell if this is just fucking, or making love, or releasing stress or some strange combination of the three, but he knows that the pull he feels towards his Commander only grows the longer they couple, the deeper inside he feels his heat.  _

_ When Riordan cums, it’s with a heavy, deep groan that sets Lyren’s stomach in to a knotted mess, and his own cock twitches, dripping thick ropes of sticky white seed along their stomachs. “Sorry.” He manages to pant, and for a moment, it’s quiet. Still, the only sounds their laboured breathing and the crickets outside the window.  _

_ His lover laughs, finally, and rolls on his side to prop himself up on an elbow, smoothing Lyren’s hair back to kiss his forehead. “I’d have been more upset if you didn’t cum.” He tells him, and Lyren gives a tired grin, reaching up to skim both hands along his Commander’s face, gaze flickering to and fro as he watches him a moment.  _

_ Finally, he leans in, stealing a soft kiss from Riordan’s lips, even as fatigue fogs his brain, clouds his mind as he slips down and in to his arms. This had been a long time coming, as far as he was concerned. Years and years of a steady emotional buildup finally culminated in the messy, beautiful thing between them. “I think,” he murmurs, as he lets his eyes slip closed, the heavy hand stroking his hair lulling him to sleep, “think that I...I love-” he yawns, “you.” _

It’s Nessaria snapping her fingers that pulls him from the memory, and she snorts. “You got this dopey, glazed kinda look on your face for a solid minute. I’m shutting down for the night, get the fuck out of my shop.” 

Lyren gives a playful smile and holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. If the lady requests.” 

“The lady do.” She says, but the smirk on her face lightens the blow. 

“Good night, Ness.” He says, and she gives a lazy two fingered salute as she begins to put out the fire in the forge. 

“Good night, lovebird.” 

Lyren tries to swallow the embarrassed flush that burns his ears, which wriggle and twitch as they pull back in a shy little flicker. The training yard is suspiciously empty, but when he moves to head back to the tavern, he finds Riordan already there, set straight in the middle of his path. 

“Come here often?” The half-elf says, the corner of his mouth twitching with an uncontrolled smirk. 

There’s a warm, bemused smile on Riordan’s face, as he holds up a plate, no doubt purchased from the very tavern they were staying at. “More often now that you’re here.” He says, and Lyren isn’t sure what to do in the face of such...sweet, romantic honesty. 

He turns, and ruffles his hair. “I...I see. I’m glad.” 

His Commander’s gaze softens, and he passes Lyren the other plate, held in a large hand. “There was this beautiful little hill I saw while I did some scouting, today. The locals like to spend their days there, watching the town or the nearby river.” There’s an honest vulnerability in his eyes, “I was hoping you’d do me the honour of joining me there for dinner. We have...much to talk about.” 

The way his final words leave his lips on a breath, the way he ghosts his fingers over Lyren’s cheek, squishes and worries or self doubts that the half-elf may have, and he winds his fingers through Riordan’s free ones. “...We do.” 


	2. Her Smile Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mox’s smiles mean many things.

It’s the fact that  _ those  _ smiles are just for him. 

He’s seen her smile at the others before, sure. She’s smiled at Sariel, she’s smiled at Lyren. She’s even smiled at Modo - as much as it makes his stomach twist to watch. 

He’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid. He knows that the two of them have - or _ had  _ something. The more time she’s spent with Z, the less he’s noticed her ah, screwing around with Modo. The marks on her neck began to fade long ago, and he hasn’t seen new ones since. The two of them still talk, and closely - but the edge to their relationship feels like it’s faded. 

Z thinks that he should feel bad to be happy about that. 

He’s not. 

It’s hard to even think of feeling guilty when she turns to look at him, sees him watching her and shoots him that soft smile. It’s the way everything seems to quiet down when he watches those pretty lips curve just for him. In that sweet, gentle, reassuring way she gives only to him. 

And gods, he shouldn’t want to hoard it all for himself, shouldn’t want to keep that smile from other people - but he does. 

This one...this one is all his. 

It’s the ones she gives him in battle, when she twists past an enemy, when her rapier slices through skin and blood drips down to the floor. It’s weird to be attracted to a girl when she’s got blood smeared on her arms and cheek, right? When there’s vitriol burning in her eyes? When her hair is a mess, skin slick with sweat, fierce and wild and beautiful and- gods, he’s doing it again. 

But she always looks for him, after, grinning, as though to say ‘Did you see that?!’, and he always nods, gives her a smile (‘Yes, I saw, I can’t look away from you’).

There’s the ones she gives him late at night, when they curl up to sleep in the close way that they do. It’s become easier, sleeping next to each other - both for him and for her. She locks their pinkies up between them like she always does, and he looks at them, before looking at her, and she smiles. 

And it’s tired, exhausted from the day, but it’s reassuring, and warm ‘I’m here, I will always be here’ and he knows, he knows that her smile, that look in her eyes can’t lie. Not to him. 

He falls asleep, and when he wakes up their hands are locked and she’s still there, and sometimes she’s asleep, sometimes she’s not - but she’s there. And once again, she smiles (‘I’m not going anywhere’). 

She brings him his tea every morning, and he’s not sure when it moved from a joke to a regular morning occurrence but it did, and he takes the warm cup in his fingers, pleased when hers brush his and linger just a little too long. 

And she sweeps his bangs back as she always does, and leans down to his sitting position to drop a kiss to his forehead - and he can feel her smile on his skin. ‘I adore you,’ it says, ‘I adore you.’

She’s started going to the beach at night, and she brings him with her, something about his presence making her feel safer near the water. He doesn’t mind. 

The fact he makes her feel safe is more than enough. 

They pick around for rocks, and she always looks so delighted when she finds one that interests her. And it’s so fucking cute, because gods, he gets that. The fascination. 

And it’s the smile when she brings him one with swirls of red and green and blue, speckled and intermingled like a web of vibrant colour, damp from the ocean and brilliant under the moonlight, that makes his heart lurch. 

“Look,” she says, and puts it in his hands, “it’s like….the colours, you know? They remind me of you. Of me. And the way they’re all twined together…”

He gives her a playful grin. “Is this your way of saying you want to be with me forever?” He teases, but there’s something behind his words that he tries so hard to hide. (‘I want you to stay with me.’) 

And she laughs, her eyes crinkle and she pats his hand. “If you want me to.” And her smile says, ‘I want to stay with you’.

He’s fiddling with one of his little trinkets, when she sits down next to him. He looks at her, and then goes back to it, about to put it away before she stops him with a hand on his wrist. “What’s that?”

And he looks at her again, silently asking if she...really wants to know? But she nods, and he starts slow, before launching in to a description of everything he has right now, excitedly telling her stories and tales and when he stops for only a moment, to see if she’s interested, the smile on her face takes him aback. ‘Go on,’ it seems to say, ‘I love listening to you be happy’.

It’s the morning after, and her body is against his own, and he shouldn’t allow himself to be this happy, he shouldn’t be doing this, he still has things that he needs to deal with but he  _ loves  _ her, and he can’t stop spilling all the words that he’s held back- 

But she sets her hands on his face, and he stops talking as she squishes his cheeks, for a moment. When he stops, her thumbs swipe beneath his eyes and- oh, he was crying. “Can you give me a second to speak?” She teases. “I love you, too.” And his heart soars and sinks at the same time. “And I’ll wait for you. As long as you need. Whatever you need to do. I will wait.” 

And his eyes water again, but before they blur over he sees her smile, sees the way it speaks to him, just him, once again, ‘I’m not going anywhere. I swear it’.

It’s the way that, years down the road, they walk out of their house together, and the sun is bright. They go down to the beach, and they pick through rocks again, and she lets the water run over her bare toes though still harbours a fear of going in. 

But they’re working on it, little by little, together. 

It’s the way he finds a beautiful blue stone - sparkling like the night sky - that reminds him of the second one she gave him, all those years ago. And he brings it to her, and the smile on his face mimics her own (‘I’m happy. I love you.’). 

“Kinda looks like your eyes, don’t you think?” And he doesn’t know how he remembers her exact words, all this time later, but he does, and the smile she wears says she does, too. 

‘I love you’, her smile says, as he puts the rock in her hands, and then- oh, “I love you.” It says again. 

“I love you.” 

His smile is blinding, genuine and vulnerable, as he wraps his arms around her waist. 

And his lips part, and his smile says, “I love you, too.”


	3. Safe with Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archadia and Sariel grow closer under the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all. Get ready for some Sarchadia fluff.
> 
> ~Kat

When she first saw her, Sariel believed Archadia to be a goddess walking the earth. Snow white hair threaded with flowers and eyes the light green of jade Z showed her once. Despite Sariel standing about a head taller than her, Archadia made her feel...small.

She walked with a strong confidence, as if the world would part before her. Yet, there was a softness to her muscled figure and within her gleaming eyes. Archadia was kind and gentle outside of battle, caring for those in the party. She first caught Sariel’s attention by bringing her dinner when she sat away from the group, deep in thought. Their eyes met, and Sariel felt herself flush. Archadia stared at her, as if she could see straight into her very being.

It unsettled her. She hid away so much from the others. Only Z had seen her vulnerable and raw. She hid behind a brusque attitude and blank face. And Archadia...she stared past it into her being.

Slowly, they began seeking company in one another. Archadia, while her jade gaze unsettled her, didn’t prod at her. They let each other exist and enjoy each other’s company. Calm, quiet walks while on watch, exchanging flowers and trinkets, and star gazing. For the first time since Mikel, Sariel found herself clinging to another’s presence. Archadia listened to her whenever she talked of her home before; the legends about the constellations, about her learning of the forest and creatures within. They found a sense of comfort with each other.

One day, after a night of nightmares and memories, they went on their walk. However, Archadia seemed...off. Her broad shoulders stiffly set and a frown on her face. When they reached a clearing, the shorter woman spun around to face her.

“Okay, I know I’m an idiot...but I’m a safe idiot.”

Sariel froze. “I...don’t know what you mean, Archadia.”  
Her eyes...why were they sad? Sad didn’t fit this goddess-esque woman.

“Sariel...you gotta know this isn’t good for you. You need to tell someone...even if it’s not me.”

A weight pressed on Sariel’s chest, causing her breath to stutter. “It’s...not a happy story, Archadia.”

“...I figured...but I’m willing to listen if you’re willing to tell it.”

Surprisingly, Sariel...did feel like she could tell this to Archadia...and she did. She spoke of her life before isolation, of her meeting and falling in love with a human, Mikel, how she begged her parents to call off her betrothal to another man. Tears misted her eyes when she spoke of her parents refusing her plea and sending her off. They finally fell as she reached the part where her betrothed, Rhothomir, produced Mikel’s ring as proof that the elf had slain him. Her body shook with remembered rage and she whispered how she killed; how she took the dagger from his belt and stabbed him again and again and again. 

How she took her things and fled. Her voice evened out as she spoke of her years of isolation, meeting Z...and she broke again when speaking of her destroyed home.

“It’s why I joined the party. I want to find the people that burned down my home, my life, and make them pain.” Her shaky hand struggled to wipe away her tears, her weakness, when gentle, calloused hands caught her hand, one separating to wipe the tears from her eyes.

Pine needle eyes met jade.

“It’s okay to cry, Sariel. You don’t have to keep pushing it down. You’re safe with me...okay?”

Somehow...Sariel could believe that. They spent a while longer in the clearing, Sariel's face in Archadia’s neck. She let her tears fall as those warm hands cupped her head and rubbed her back.

Archadia was safe...a safe place among the uncertainty that clogged her mind.

Sariel wasn’t ready to tell everyone...but maybe talking with Archadia would be alright.


	4. Stained [MoxZ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Her lips are stained red from how often she drinks her tea._

It’s lemongrass, the first time. 

She’s standing in front of him, two cups of tea in her hand. One of them is a deep, startling red, and she takes a slow sip with a sigh. Must by the rosehip and hibiscus that she was drinking last night. 

The other, she holds out to him. 

He’s surprised for a moment, looks up at her with a brow raised and stares. “Take it.” She says. “It’s a….thank you. For the conversation last night. I appreciated you being so candid with me.” 

For a moment, Z stares, and then silently reaches out to grasp the warm cup in long fingers. 

“Lemongrass, right? That’s what you mentioned last night.” She says. He almost freezes, but still curls his fingers around the cup, carefully bringing it back down to his lap. He can see his reflection in the liquid, and she continues. “It’s not poisoned or anything. I’m sure the party would kill me for offing their camp counsellor.” 

She stands a moment, almost expectantly. Awkwardly. He’s still momentarily taken aback. She actually paid attention? And here he thought she seemingly hated him. But here she is, standing in front of him, _thanking_ him for their conversation, and maybe, just maybe, he had her pegged wrong. 

Her searching questions last night should have made that clear, though. 

“Thank you.” He finally says, and she relaxes, and the soft smile on her face is nice, he decides. 

“You’re welcome.” And then she leaves, and he sighs, lifts the cup to his nose and takes a breath. For a moment, it almost overwhelms. Eyes burn and the surface of his tea turns blurry. Glassy. But then he takes a sip - and when he opens his eyes again, it’s just a cup of tea. 

Warm, inviting, and unassuming. 

-

The second time is even more surprising than the first. Why she brings him a cup again, he’ll never know - but it’s the next morning and she’s standing in front of him with two cups again. 

“Morning!” She chirps, and he takes the cup from her hands with a confused look. 

Mox smiles. “I make myself tea every morning. You seem to enjoy it well enough, and it’s not hard to make a second cup. Why not, right?”

Why not, indeed. 

Her smile is still nice.

-

The third time, he’s waiting on. He wonders if she plans to continue, or if two was the extent of her reaching out. 

Morning starts to pass, and he isn’t sure why he feels….disappointed, that she doesn’t show. 

He’s just cleaning up his spot when she shows, and there’s a sheepish smile on her face as she holds out a cup of tea. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m still not used to making for two. I didn’t grab enough water and had to go all the way back down to the lake to get more.”

“Why didn’t you just drink yours while waiting on mine?”

She looks at him like it’s a silly question. “I don’t want to get mine before you. Doesn’t seem right.” He holds the cup in cool fingers and traces the rim with a thoughtful expression. “Anyway,” she continues, and gives a wave over her shoulder as she turns to leave, “have a good day!”

-

By the seventh, ‘have a good day’ has become her standard parting. He’s fine with it - it’s kind of sweet. 

-

The ninth cup, Mox sits down to talk with him. For some reason, he can remember to this day what they talked about. From the haul they had at last nights dinner to the lute on her back to how pretty she thinks his eyes are. 

“Have a good day” tumbles off her lips and he bids her the same without thinking twice. 

-

The fourteenth cup feels like routine, and Z’s not sure when he started looking for her from between the first cup to this. 

Her footsteps are familiar now, and he lifts his head as soon as he hears her approaching. “Good morning.” She says again, and the way he shifts to make room next to him for her to sit is as instinctual as her tea making. 

-

The twenty first cup makes the beginning of a habit. 

She doesn’t forget, any more. It’s muscle memory, instinct, and he realizes that someone has an instinctual response that was born because of _him._

A little mark left on the world even after he’s gone, he supposes. 

-

The forty second cup is special. He remembers the others in between, but the forty second is when his tea changes. 

A deep, startling red, just like hers. “I wanted you to try my favourite.” Mox tells him. “It’s fine if you don’t like it, but I wanted to….share, something with you.”

He tells her that he likes it, and decides he wouldn’t mind seeing that delighted smile more often.

-

The sixty third cup, she ruffles his hair on her way past after bringing his tea. 

He doesn’t hate it.

-

The seventy fifth cup sees her sweeping back his bangs to kiss his forehead. 

He’s lost in his own thoughts for the rest of the day.

-

The seventy sixth and he tilts his head back for her, closes his eyes as her lips touch his skin.

-

The seventy seventh, and Mox is meeting Z halfway, hand brushing back his bangs as she kisses his forehead. “Have a good day” is murmured against his skin. 

He grins.

-

The ninety first cup and she finally sings for him. He knew she had a nice voice, he’s heard her around the campfire. 

But the soft, sweet tones that tell of stories just for him is something he could get used to hearing. 

The thought surprises him. 

-

The hundred and eighth cup, and she holds his hand. 

It’s warm.

-

The hundred and sixteenth cup she brings to him in the tavern. He can tell it’s not her tea as soon as he tastes it, and he frowns, looking up at her with a stare that reads ‘what the hell is this?’

She gives a wry smile. “It’s all that the barkeep downstairs offered. I’ll make you more myself when we’re back on the road.”

He’s never been so excited to travel, before.

-

The hundred and tenth cup comes as a surprise. 

Mox spent the night, asleep in his bed, her pinky brushing against his. When he woke up that night, their hands had been laced. 

He half expected her to be too nervous and shy to bring him his morning tea. 

But he knew Mox, and he should have known better. 

She’s not there when he wakes up, and he’s almost hurt - but her bag is still in the corner, and her jacket and cape and corset. Like she made herself as at home in his room as she did in his life. 

The door is nudged open as he lounges back against the pillows, watching a bird on the sill - and then there she is. Hair messy, swept back from her face, blue eyes bright and two cups of tea held carefully in her hands. 

He’s sitting up to meet her before she even closes the door. 

“Last day of the tavern tea.” She teases, and he can’t stop the way instinct has him leaning forward and pressing his lips to her cheek. 

“Thank you.”

-

The hundred and eightieth cup is bitter. 

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Me too.”_

He thinks that she’s not going to bring him one - but when he stirs from his slumber, there it is, resting on his nightstand in the tavern. 

Z only wishes Mox was there to share it with him.

-

The hundred and eighty first cup and she’s back at his side, right where she should be. 

He doesn’t notice the wing settling around her back. 

-

The hundred and ninety second cup, and he’s brushing her hair back from her forehead, leaving a kiss there with a little smirk before she can respond. “Have a good day.” He murmurs, taking his tea from her hand and turning back to his little trinkets. 

-

The two hundred and sixteenth cup (he’s still keeping count) and he’s come to the conclusion that he’s hopelessly in love with her. 

-

The two hundred and fortieth cup is a welcome occurrence. They’re both laid out in his bed in a tavern, and he knows that he has something he needs to do, ends that he needs to tie up, but he’s happy here - and gods, he deserves that happiness for a moment. 

Her naked body pressed in to his - small and slight (though he still remembers her wiping blood from her lip, eyes vitriol and charred brimstone, rapier in hand as she pushes back to her feet - and there’s nothing _small_ about her. She’s a force of nature). 

Z is kissing her again, wanting to soak up the last little bit of time that he gets with her in this capacity. The way she kisses him back, the fingers curling around his back, skimming over the base of his wings, and he shivers, stops her before he loses himself again. 

They have to part eventually, but she does so with an “I love you, too” that has his heart twisting in his chest and all he wants to do is draw her back in to his arms. 

It’s the tea on his nightstand when he comes back from the bathroom that makes him feel like it’ll be okay.

-

The two hundred and forty first cup sees her sweeping his hair back again, and her lips on his forehead. “I still love you.” She reminds him. 

It’s the first time he’s wanted to cry happy tears. 

-

The three hundredth cup marks a momentous occasion. Three hundred long, almost consecutive days. 

He kisses her. 

She tastes like rosehip and hibiscus - and he thinks to himself that it might just be his new favourite. 

-

The three hundred and eighth cup is when he asks her. 

“Will you live with me?” 

The three hundred and eighth cup is when she answers. 

“Yes.”

-

The three hundred and sixty fifth cup is on the beach. Water laps at the shore, and their toes are buried in the sand. A wing wraps around her back, and she rests her head to his shoulder. 

Rosehip and hibiscus flavours their tea. 

She kisses him. Her lips are stained red from how often she drinks her tea. 

She tastes just like it. It tastes like home. 


	5. You Can Rest [MoxZ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s just me. You can rest for a bit._

He’s not sure when Mox found it so easy to read him, but somehow she does. He doesn’t always hate it, but sometimes it’s a little shocking - jarring, even - when she gets right to the heart of a matter. 

“Isn’t it tiring?” She asks him, on this particular one, and he turns to face her with a hum. 

They’re sitting away from the party, near the beach but not so close to the water that she’s afraid - it’s just the cool wind blowing through, the fire crackling from behind the tree line, the moonlight on the water, and the relaxing presence of a man that she was growing increasingly more comfortable with. 

“This.” She says, and gestures up and down. Z has to raise an eyebrow in a bemused stare, silently asking her to continue, and she rolls her eyes. “You know. The face. The mask you’ve got in front of the others. The suave, charming persona that’s so terribly open and yet also the most mysterious in the group.”

“You think I’m charming?” He grins. 

Mox rolls her eyes again. “Of course I do. But that’s not the point. Doesn’t it get exhausting?” He doesn’t respond, but again - the way she reads him is eerily accurate. “You can let it go, you know? Even if it’s only with me.” 

Z opens his mouth to respond, but she stops him. “It’s just me. You can rest for a bit.” 

His shoulders sag, his wings droop - and he does just that. He sees her soft smile, the gentle nod as he relaxes completely next to her. 

And she doesn’t say anything - doesn’t push any more than she already has, and he’s grateful for it. Grateful for  _ her.  _

Mox sits next to him, that night, out near the water, and she hums a lullaby that he vaguely recognizes. Somewhere along the way, her pinky brushes against his - just the gentle skim of skin against skin. ‘I’m here. You can rest.’ 

He thinks to himself that he wouldn’t mind sticking around, just a little longer. 

-

He’s exhausted - mentally, emotionally - and he knows that she can see it. He feels her eyes boring holes in to his back, and his wings flutter in response. His back is tight, shoulders set, and he can feel his wings twitch before pressing tight up against him. 

Z half expects Mox to call him out, but he’s been learning about her, just as she has about him, and should have known that she would never. 

Instead, he finds her standing behind him at the campfire, setting her hand to his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. 

She’s smiling when he looks up at her. “Come with me a minute.” She murmurs, quietly, and he looks at the rest of the party - jovial, like nothing could go wrong. “We aren’t going far, they’ll be fine. Trust me.”

_ Trust me.  _

He sucks in a slow breath. “....Okay.”

As soon as he places his hand in hers, Mox is hauling him to his feet, dusting the dirt off his clothes before leading him away with a smile. 

It’s a gentle one, reassuring, reserved only for him (but that’s a story for another time). 

Mox is right - they don’t go far, just to the edge of camp behind a set of trees, but it already feels worlds away when it blocks them from view. 

“Here.” She says, and squeezes his hand as their fingers lace. “You need a break.”

He huffs out an incredulous laugh. “That intuition of yours is getting a bit spooky, Mox.”

She smiles. “I pay attention to you.” She explains, shrugging it off, and he looks away with a flush as his ears twitch. 

...Oh. 

After a moments contemplation, he rests his head to her shoulder, and one of her hands lifts immediately to begin playing with his hair. ‘I won’t let go. You can trust me. I’ll keep you safe.’

-

They’re sitting at a tavern, the next time. Everyone is laughing, drinking, having a good time and celebrating a hard won battle. Z, too, is relaxing with the rest of them. However, something seems to hit him, and the smile on his face becomes forced, taught. 

He knows that Mox is going to notice it even before he does, because she’s been watching him all night from the other side of the table. 

The moment he feels the twitch of his smile, his jaw, he sees her already rising to her feet. She swings around to his side of the table, squeezing his shoulder and leaning low to murmur in his ear; ‘Meet me in our room in a few?’. 

‘Our’ room. He doesn’t miss that. 

It’s become easier for the two of them to sleep together. The way they (for the most part) seem to keep the nightmares at bay, the way he can fall asleep without worry when he feels her pinky locked around his. 

It’s a comfort, his anchor, and he’s all too happy to latch on to it as she offers. 

Z watches her from the corner of his eye, taking a slow breath and setting his water down on the table. He’s not that thirsty anymore. 

He doesn’t even wait to follow her, this time. Who cares if they’re caught together? He isn’t ashamed that he finds comfort in her, and she him. When he opens their door, Mox is only just sitting down on the bed, looking at him with a surprised ‘o’ of her lips. 

But she just smiles, scoots back against the pillows and holds out her arms. “C’mere.” She murmurs. 

The door is swung shut with his heel, and he’s striding towards her, stripping of his armour as he does. It thumps to the floor, and then he’s leaning right down to her arms, burying his face in her chest with a soft sigh. 

Mox sets a hand in his hair, and he coils his arms around her, squeezing her close as he lays against her chest. “There you go.” She murmurs. “Take a break, yeah? I’ve got you. It’s safe.” 

He sighs, and his wings relax, settling against his back as the furrow of his brows eases away, breathing evening out as she continues to comb her hand through his hair. “That’s it.” Mox soothes. “It’s alright. You’re okay.” 

‘Okay’. He sighs against her, resting his face in to her shoulder as he closes his eyes. 

Z falls asleep to her fingers absentmindedly stroking up and down his back, ‘You’re okay, I’m still here, let it go.’

-

Mox doesn’t know what he’s gone through, when he finally comes back to her. 

His gaze is hollow, empty, and she only wishes there was  _ something  _ that she could do for him. Unfortunately, with the way he refused to even speak of what happened (not that she asked him to), there was little she could do besides bring him his tea and hope for the best. 

The first time she does, his eyes water. She doesn’t press for details - just sweeps back his hair and kisses his forehead. “You’re strong,” she tells him, “whatever this is, you’ll see it through.” 

He wonders if she’s right. 

Mox continues to bring him his tea, until the day he can give her a little smile, and she almost tears up in relief. 

They sit in silence together, and he appreciates her companionship. Her silent, supportive companionship. Mox takes his hand, and he sighs, laces his fingers tight with her own. They don’t say anything, but he’s content to sit there with her. 

Several days later, and he comes to her of his own accord. He doesn’t say anything - just reaches for her, and she gives him a soft smile. She opens her arms, and he locks himself in to them, coils his arms, and his wings, around her with a squeeze. 

“Thank you.” He says, and she presses her lips to the top of his head, strokes her fingers up and down his back. 

“...You’re welcome.” She murmurs. 

Her fingers draw circles along his spine, and he melts in to her, rests his face in her shoulder and sighs. Z envelops her completely, and she sighs continues to run her fingers up and down his back. ‘It’s okay,’ her touch tells him, ‘I’m here for you, I won’t let go.’ 

He believes her. 

-

Mox sits in bed with him, their children put to bed for the night. His wing settles around her shoulder, pulling her in to his side. 

Her head rests against his shoulder, and she sighs, closes her eyes and smiles. 

Z doesn’t hide himself away, anymore - but he still appreciates these moments with her. The quiet, unassuming moments where he gets to fully, truly,  _ be.  _

Her fingers tangle in his hair, combing through soft red locks like water through the drain, and her lips touch his shoulder. ‘I’m here,’ her touch says, her kiss. ‘I’m here, I love you.’ 

Carefully, he pulls her down with him, situates the two of them under the blankets and draws her in to his arms, a wing tossed haphazardly over her like a second makeshift blanket - shielding them from the world. Making a little space that’s all their own. 

“Hey.” He says. 

“Hey.” Mox smiles, and his heart trills a happy little song, seeking hers in the same way his lips do, pressing to her own in a slow kiss. His fingers skim up and down her back, dipping beneath her shirt to feel her warm skin against his hands. “Go ahead,” she murmurs, and he feels her lips brush his as she speaks, still tastes her on his tongue, “you can rest.” 

He’s not sure when Mox found it so easy to read him, but somehow… she does.


	6. Embers [MoxZ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His gaze travels up, up to the feather - Z’s feather - hanging from her ear, and gives her a too wide smile. “Though maybe there’s some ‘divine’ in you, after all.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: needles, depictions of pain, some light angst because i'm just not good at writing it

_ “You’ll want the power.”  _ Her father had said, laughing around a mouthful of blood as he lay, dying, under her foot,  _ “like father, like daughter.”  _

Mox had vehemently denied it to herself, then. She wasn’t her father. She would  _ never  _ be her father. 

But she was in love. 

She had known, even before the battle with her father. Before things were shot to hell. She hadn’t known how to say it, be she had known. Their moment after her father, when she was healing him, frantically searching him over for wounds and chastising him for not thinking of himself - the brazen confession - had changed their dynamic entirely. 

The closer the became, the more Mox knew it would hurt when she departed from this world eventually. He would outlive her - by fifty years, at the least. It was inevitable. 

But even as they lay in bed together, her head tucked under his chin as he hums them both to sleep, she knows that there’s an option. 

Walking in to the alchemist’s shop fills her with a sense of unease. His beady eyes gaze over at her from behind the counter, and she reaches up to fiddle with the brown feather hanging from her earring. 

The half-gnome smiles - thin, too long, and she shivers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks. 

Mox frowns and paces to the counter, leaning in close with a bang of her hand against already old, splintered wood. “Cut the crap.” She hisses, side eyeing the glass door to the front of his unassuming shop for a moment. “I know you dabble in blood transformations.” 

His smile stretches wider. “Perhaps. That’s a hefty sum, miss. Are you sure you’re willing to pay the price?”

“Just tell me what it is.” 

The gnome snaps his fingers, and a thin scroll materializes in his stretched open hand, the other sliding an inkwell and feather towards her. “Find out yourself.” He says. 

She frowns, but opens the scroll, dipping across the text as quickly as she could. It seemed pretty simple - a pretty decent sum of gold, a promise to swear it to secrecy….the side effects, however, give her pause. 

“...Could this kill me?” She asks. 

The gnome sits down on his stool and drums his fingers against the counter top. His smile sets her on edge. “I gave a human man twenty five transfusions over the course of a month.” His eyes are large as he puts a set of thick rimmed frames over them, and blinks up at her. 

It doesn’t offset the edge to his smile. 

“It didn’t kill your father.”

She freezes, and her eyes narrow. How that crazy old fuck had known that she’d make a decision like this one day, she didn’t know, but….

_ “You’ll want the power.” _

It wasn’t the power. She just wanted to  _ live.  _

Pressing her lips together, she snatches the feather from the inkwell, scribbling her name at the bottom of the contract. 

The gnome claps his hands together with childish glee. “Excellent!” With a snap, the contract disappears, and she looks up as he hops off the stool, motioning for her to follow him. “Come, come.” He says. “The tools are in the back.” 

Mox follows him through a locked door, balking in the entryway as she gazes out at the back room. A large chair sits in the middle of the room over a thick, grated drain, wide leather straps in place on the arms and legs. 

Next to it, a table sits on wheels, adorned with a tray covered in several metal instruments. She’s not sure what they are, but she’s never been much of a scientist, herself. 

On the back wall are rows of shelves that she approaches at a slow walk, while the gnome bustles around to set things up. Vials sit securely in the shelves - red liquid sitting pretty inside, white labels pressed to the glass with tilting cursive. 

“Minotaur” one reads, “strength.”

“Shifter: Beasthide. Strength, transformation.”

“Aasimar. Longevity, charisma.”

“Aaracokra. Dexterity, wisdom.”

“Gnome, rock. Constitution.”

“Elf, high. Dexterity, longevity.”

A crashing bang behind her has her jumping - and she’s not sure when she leaned so close in to the vials, jerking back like she’d been burned. 

The gnome stands in front of the chair - which is still shaking a little, having been tossed back. For her, presumably. “Inspecting the specimens?” The gnome says, and she shivers at the way he wrings his hands together. 

“What are these?” 

“Where do you think the blood comes from, my dear? Willing volunteers?” Mox’s blood runs cold. “I’ve a bit of a deal with the crown, you see. Everything dies eventually. Humans, elves, aasimar, shifters, dwarves. When the body is prepared for burial, it’s drained of blood.” The gnome draws his thumb across his throat, and Mox has to fight from throwing up. “That’s sent quietly to me, and the crown benefits from my….services, free of charge.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger together. 

He laughs at her sickened expression. “Do you really think an elf would willingly give up their blood so you have a taste at what they offer?” 

“No...No, I suppose they wouldn’t.”

The gnome wanders up to her, and only now does she notice his limp. The cane he has  _ taptaptap _ ’s against the floor as he makes his way over to her. “Well? What catches your eye? The strength of a minotaur? The dexterity of an elf? The-”

“Longevity of an aasimar.” Mox murmurs, and the gnome’s eyes light up with glee. 

“That won’t give you a taste at divinity, my dear.” He forewarns, and she shakes her head. She doesn’t want divinity, she just wants-

“The lifespan.” She says, quietly. “I just want the lifespan.” 

The gnome strokes his chin. “An elf could give you something longer, you know. If it’s longevity you’re after, I suggest changing your mind.” 

She thinks of Z, back at home, waiting for her (“I’m going on a quick trip,” she told him before she left, “I should only be gone a few days.”), and shakes her head. She was only doing this to spend their years together, not to outlive the other. “No. Aasimar is perfect.” She reaches out to touch the bottle, but a cane smacks to her hand, and she yelps, jerking back and scowling at the gnome. “Why you little-!”

“Valuable.” He snaps. “Waste it, and I’ll harvest your blood instead.” Mox freezes, and he chortles. “Though no one ever comes in here asking for human blood.” His gaze travels up, up to the feather - Z’s feather - hanging from her ear, and gives her a too wide smile. “Though maybe there’s some  _ ‘divine’  _ in you, after all.” 

Mox scowls at the filthy comment, cheeks hot as she strides towards the chair. “I didn’t pay you for your quips.” She snaps. 

He snickers. “As you wish, my lady.” He mocks, and she bristles in response as she sits down. 

“What are the straps for?” She asks, trying not to think about the large metal object he was draining a vial of blood in to. 

“Didn’t you read the contract?” The gnome snarks. “This is going to hurt - and it will continue to do so for days.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question, gnome.” 

Without a word, he reaches down to quickly yank at the strap next to her left foot - but her dexterity has her pulling away before he gets the strap around her ankle, and she reaches for her rapier. Just as she has her hand curling around the hilt, she finds herself staring down the muzzle of a pistol, and the gnome cocks a single brow. “Do you wanna try that, sweetheart?” 

She purses her lips, but slowly lets go of the hilt, feeling it settle back in to the sheath with a sharp sound. 

“Good choice.” He says, then goes back to strapping her in. “The pain is blinding. People squirm, pull, sometimes even attack. Animals do crazy things when they’re in pain. You humans are no different. Don’t fancy getting clawed at or stabbed when I’m just doing what you asked me to.” 

Mox swallows. That...makes sense. He’s not exactly filling her with hope here, as he tells her just how much it’s going to fucking suck, but she bites her tongue and sits quiet. She wants to do this. Needs to. 

Taking in a breath, she allows him to strap her arms in as she lays back against the chair, blood turning to ice as she catches a glimpse of the needle that he plans to use for the transfusion. 

She swallows, looks away and shuts her eyes. 

“This isn’t going to be fun.” The alchemist warns - and she bites her cheek. 

“Just get it over with.” 

He laughs. “I will, you wouldn’t have had a choice, anyways.” His voice is low as he brings his face near her ear, the cold sting of the needle poking in to her skin. “You signed the contract.” 

The thing about celestial blood - or any blood, for that matter - is that it was never supposed to mix with another outside of offspring. 

As it enters her body, the pain is...unlike anything she’s ever felt. Excruciating, white hot, her head feeling like it’s splitting in two as her entire body trembles. Fingers curl around the arms of the chair, and she wonders if the crack she hears is bone or wood. 

Molten heat races through her veins, blurring her vision till the world is little more than white noise, back arching, body convulsing, the feeling of utter torment crashing over her in waves. There’s a high pitched screaming - and she wonders if it’s her, till she feels something vaguely like cloth being stuffed in to her mouth, and it’s muffled to a shrill whine. 

She can feel the sweat dripping down her spine, sticking her clothing to her body, feel the thick, cold metal of the needle somehow pushing  _ deeper-  _

Mox wakes up to a dry mouth. 

She smacks her lips together, rolls her head with a groan as the cricks in her shoulders protest the movement. 

There’s a rustling to her right, and she blinks blearily, turning to face the noise. The gnome looks up from a parchment, setting down the quill and limping over, pressing a bony hand to her forehead. “Mm, running a temperature. Good, good. Body is fighting infection, healing. No signs of rejection.” He mumbles to himself, crouching down to undo the belts around her ankles. When he undoes the ones on her arm, the jostles the affected one - and white hot pain shoots from the site of the injection, spiralling out and down her spine. 

Mox screams, grabbing at the arm and curling to the side. 

“Oh, foolish humans!” The gnome barks, grabbing her hand and wrenching it away. “Squeezing it won’t make it feel any better! It’s going to be sore for a few days, you read the contract!” He tuts. 

She can hardly hear him, pain ringing up her back, a loud buzzing in her ears. “Yes, yes. You’re good enough to go. Up, go on. Out of my shop now. You’ve got what you came for.” 

“W-Wait, what-?” Mox croaks. “I’m- in no position to leave, yet!” 

The alchemist merely shrugs, opening the door and gesturing for her to leave. “Yes, well, that’s not my problem. I did what you paid me for. Bedside care is not on the list, and no, before you ask, it will not be.” 

He ushers Mox to the door. “Good day, human.” He says, in way of farewell, and swings the door of the shop closed behind her. 

She almost sobs, arm hanging limply at her side as she tries desperately not to move it. The site of the injection is an angry red, and she looks down at it, ignoring the whispers as passerby stop to stare. Pulling the strip of fabric from her belt, Mox instead swings it over her shoulder like a cape, biting her tongue at the painful sting as the cloth brushes her wound. 

She keeps her head down, ignoring the whispering townsfolk in front of her as she brushes through them with a careful ‘excuse me’. 

Mox is only about halfway home when the fever starts to set in fully. She spends an hour laying, naked, in a cool lake, trying not to jostle her arm as she relishes in the cold water chasing away the heat of her body. 

As soon as she gets her clothes back on, however, it returns - and she makes a mental note not to make any more delays on her way back home. 

By the time she arrives, she finds it hard to stand. Coming up the road, her knees finally give out, unable to keep pushing on when she sees Z already on his way to meet her. The gravel is hard under her knees, but she doesn’t notice - body on fire as her eyes drift to an exhausted close. 

It’s a cool cloth on her forehead that wakes her some time later, Z’s hand threading through her hair. “What did you do?” He finally asks her, voice low, hoarse. “I can’t- I can’t even heal you. The mark on your arm is fighting me every step of the way.” 

Mox makes a noncommittal sound. “Not right now.” She mumbles. “Please.” 

For a moment, Z eyes her, gaze travelling about her face, before landing on the bandage around her upper arm, and he lets out a slow breath. “Alright.” He agrees. “Later.” 

“Later.” She promises. 

‘Later’ turns out to come in about two weeks. 

For two weeks, she’d battled the fever. Slipping in and out of consciousness, waking up sometimes only to lean over the side of the bed and lose whatever food she’d previously managed to keep down. Around the second day, she just stopped wearing clothes altogether. When she as too hot, she could kick off the blankets - when she was cold, she could pull them back up. Clothes just made it worse. The were hot, and stuck to her sweaty body. 

Pain continued to radiate from the injection site for days after the shot. Even the slightest touch sent her in to a fit. 

Z took to sleeping near the edge of the bed, not wanting to hurt her in his sleep. 

By the end of the first week, the pain had gone, but the fever still had yet to break. Z chose to keep quiet about the swirling red leaking in to her irises, or the tapering tips of her ears. Whatever idiotic shit she’d done could be dealt with later. Right now, it was secondary to her health. 

She took to sleeping with him, again - curled up to his chest, but never for long. It got to be too hot, too sticky, and she was forced to pull away in order to cool down. 

Food was a struggle to keep down. She was sipping water all day in an effort to stay hydrated, but it seemed like every little thing in her stomach was quick to come right back up. 

For days, she honestly wondered if she might die. Is this what her father had gone through? 25 times in a month? Was that even possible? Or was that gnome alchemist pulling her leg? 

By the sixteenth day, the fever finally breaks, and she’s keeping down solids again. Her first meal she all but devours, utterly starving as she nearly inhales real, solid food for the first time in two weeks. 

Z is sitting at her bedside, lightly chastising her, reminding her to slow down so she doesn’t upset her stomach again. 

The seventeenth day, and she’s finally outside, feeling the fresh air against her skin and the ocean spray on her face. She never thought that she’d miss the water as much as she did. Mox has seen the red eyes in the mirror, the tapered ears, and she knows this isn’t something she can just brush off - not when it comes to Z. 

Not that she would want to. She has a feeling that pretending it never happened would only cause a rift that she didn’t know if she would be able to fix. 

On the eighteenth day, when he sits down next to her after the wake in the morning, she already knows what he’s about to ask. 

“What did you do.” 

It’s not a question, and she’s well aware of it. His eyes flit to her ears, and she reaches up to touch them, almost self consciously as she pulls her hair to hide them from view. 

She swallows, and he presses again. “Mox. What did you do?” 

Mox sighs, runs a hand over her face and licks her lips. “You remember… that alchemist, right? The one my dad spoke of?” 

Almost immediately, his eyes narrow, and he stands, paces back and forth across the room. “Mox, tell me,  _ tell me,  _ that you didn’t go to this quack alchemist that your dead father - who almost killed you  _ and  _ the entire party, by the way, in case you  _ forgot -  _ and do whatever- whatever  _ idiotic shit  _ that he did?” 

Mox opens her mouth, closes it, and bites her lip. “...I can’t.” She says, quietly. 

He breathes in through his nose. Out. 

There’s something in his eyes that she can’t discern, and she opens her mouth to speak - but he cuts her off. “No. No, I- God, I don’t want to hear it, Mox. We’re a team. We’re supposed to talk about this kind of shit, to make  _ life altering  _ decisions together.” 

“I didn’t think-”

“That’s exactly it!” He snaps, takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair again, breathes a moment. “You didn’t think.” He swipes his thumb across his lower lip. “Aasimar, wasn’t it.” 

It’s not a question. She still answers. 

“Yes.” 

“Fucking-” He takes another breath through his nose. “I’m- I’m gonna go out for a bit. I need- I don’t know.” Z mumbles. He doesn’t spare her a look before he goes. 

Mox sits in silence for a long while, biting her tongue and the urge to cry, before standing up and making her way to the bathroom. In the mirror, red eyes stare back, cut like rubies, glittering like molten rock, and the tapered tips of her ears peek through long locks of snow white hair. 

She made it through...whatever that alchemist did to her. 

And now she just had to make it through this.


End file.
